The Children of the Kindly West
by Altariel
Summary: When a small boy gets sick, tall tales are the best entertainment. Written for the Teitho Contest Picture Challenge IV, where it placed first.


**The Children of the Kindly West**

"O Gandalf! May you ever appear where you are most needed and least expected!"

_The Hobbit_

* * *

_Minas Tirith, in the Fourth Age_

Arwen was a fine healer in her own right, but some of the more common mortal sicknesses had naturally passed her by entirely. "It's only chickenpox," said the Master Healer, somewhat tersely (he had been dragged from his bed very late at night). "But you should keep him away from the littler ones for a week or so."

"Poor Eldarion," said the Steward to the King, on receiving the news the following morning. "Still, nothing to worry about."

"And yet the Queen is beside herself."

Which meant that the King, too, would be of little use until this was over.

"The girls, you see," the King.

"Yes, of course…" said the Steward. "Well, why not send him over to us? My lot have had it." All three of them, all at once. Faramir shuddered briefly at the memory. As the children grew older, thoughts of those trying early years had receded to a distant background thrum, only to resurface every so often, like night terrors or the shocks of war. _This too will pass_, he thought of saying to the father, then thought better.

"Are you sure?"

For a second, Faramir doubted the wisdom of the idea. But the offer had been made. "Yes, yes, of course."

And that was how the heir to the Reunited Kingdom found himself tucked up in bed in a pleasant room at the back of the Steward's House in Minas Tirith. Éowyn was in her element, with a patient to hand, and remedies to try on him. But care was one thing; company was another. The older two children took one look at the small boy languishing in the distant spare room, and beat a hasty retreat, although Léof proved surprisingly generous with his time, dropping by every so often for a one-sided chat, before wandering off again on his own business.

It was not as if the child was well enough yet for games or books. He lay there, listless, without much interest in anything. Faramir, poking his nose round the door the second night, found Éowyn gently rubbing salve along the boy's arms. She came out to join him.

"How's the patient?" he said.

"Missing his mother."

Faramir peered round the door. The boy looked small and miserable. Six years old. Yes, you did miss mama at that age. He went into the room and stood by the bed. Eldarion looked up him with sad eyes. "Hello, Eldarion. How are you?"

The boy shrugged.

"That good, eh?" Faramir gave him a rueful smile. "Well, it's time for you to go to sleep, and that usually means a story. Would you like to hear a story?"

The boy sighed. "I suppose so."

"It's a good story. One of the best. There are dwarves, there are eagles, and there's a big battle at the end… Oh, and there's a dragon. It wouldn't be a proper story without a dragon—"

"All right," said the boy, grumpily. "I'll listen."

"Move over, then."

The boy gave him a puzzled look.

"I'm not sitting on that chair," said Faramir. "Not when there's a bed to lie on."

The boy wriggled over to one side of the bed. Faramir made himself comfortable in the space left.

"Where's the book?" said the boy.

"This isn't a story from a book." Faramir tapped his head. "This is a story I keep here."

"You made it up?"

"Not this one, no. Somebody told me this story."

"Who?" demanded the boy, imperiously. "Who told you?"

Faramir gave a crooked smile. "A wizard."

That, as intended, did the trick. And so Faramir began a story about a party of dwarves in need of a burglar…

* * *

The first night got them through the washing up and more or less onto the Road. He stopped with a promise of trolls. Who would not want to hear about trolls?

"How is he?" said his father, the next day.

"Very sorry for himself. But that's usual. Don't worry."

The trolls were a great success. Responding to his audience, Faramir embellished them considerably. The bones became more gruesome and luscious than in any previous telling. The boy lapped up every greasy gobbet.

"Any change?" said his father.

"He's taking more interest in what's going on around him," said Faramir. "Be patient, sire. He'll be well soon enough."

After the trolls came the map with the runes. "You might recognise somebody in this part," said Faramir.

"That… Is that my grandfather?" said the boy after a moment or two.

"Yes, Eldarion, it is."

But that made him think about his mother, and that made him sad. Faramir skipped on quickly (with some regret – he loved the map), and hurried the party up into the mountains.

The following night Léof came and sat on the chair by the side of the bed. "Is it the riddles tonight? I like the part about the riddles." He caught his father's eye. "I mean, I like all the story, but I particularly like the part about the riddles. Make sure you get the voice right."

Eldarion, sitting up, leaned round. "Is it true he heard this story from a wizard?"

Léof looked thoughtfully at his father. "I mean… He's not the kind that would _lie_ about anything—"

"Thank you, Léof."

"But it doesn't sound very likely, does it?"

"But there are dwarves, aren't there?" said Eldarion. "I've met them. And of course there are Elves…"

"Yes, but have you ever met a wizard?" said Léof.

"No…" said Eldarion, a worried look on his face.

Léof pressed on. "And have you ever met anyone who has?"

Faramir raised his hand. "I have. He told me this story."

Léof glared at him. "I think you should get on with it," he said. "Eldarion is looking tired."

Gollum was exceptionally fine that night.

* * *

The following evening Léof came back – and Morwen was hanging around the bedroom door. "I'm not staying," she said. "But I like it when they get to the Carrock."

"Quite right," said her father, and carried on with the tale. Partway through, Eldarion gasped. His eyes were wide.

"Does he turn into a _bear_?"

"Rather sounds like it, doesn't it?" Faramir glanced at his daughter. "Back tomorrow?"

Morwen shuddered. "Spiders? No thank you."

But she was. She brought another chair and her sketching.

"I thought you didn't like the spiders," said Faramir.

"No, but I do like the barrels."

Eldarion liked the spiders, though, and that was what mattered.

* * *

"It's getting crowded in here," remarked Faramir, the next night. Elboron was now hovering in the doorway. "Did you want something in particular, Bron?"

"Rgn." Bron would soon be fourteen and his vocabulary was declining in inverse proportion to his height.

His father furrowed his brow and tried to crack the code. "No, you'll have to run that one past me again."

Bron plonked himself on the floor. "I said, _dragon_. I like the dragon."

"Well, you've timed it right. The dragon is indeed tonight."

The dragon was a small masterpiece, thought Faramir; no, a substantial masterpiece. These children didn't know how lucky they were. After about an hour, Éowyn put her head around the door. "I was wondering where you'd all got to." She listened for a while. "Oh good," she said. "I'm glad I didn't miss the thrush."

* * *

"We are very grateful," said the King. "The girls are showing no signs. We'll have him off your hands in a day or two, surely—"

"No rush," said the Steward. It was the Arkenstone tonight.

* * *

By the end of the week, the whole family was crushed into the room at the back of the house. Which was all very well, thought Faramir, but they did insist on contributing.

_What about the Master of Lake-town…? Did you mention the fleshy bit on Smaug's belly? Eldarion, there's a fleshy bit on Smaug's belly, not scaly, you see… I don't think this story is very fair to Thranduil… Honestly, Thorin is such a dolt… When does Bard turn up…?_

Wretched, ill-mannered brood. "Either you lot shut up," said Faramir. "Or I stop."

They promptly shut up. But Eldarion, it seemed, was used to a more decorous mode of family conversation. He burst into tears. "No!" he cried. "Don't stop, please!"

Éowyn came and put her arms around him. "Don't pay any attention to us, Eldarion," she said. She and Faramir exchanged worried looks over the boy's head. "We're a noisy rabble."

Morwen reached over to pat his hand. "He won't stop," she said.

"He never stops," said Léof.

"And we'll be good," said Éowyn, a glint in her eye.

Eldarion still looked troubled. "But are we getting the battle tonight?"

"Yes," said Bron, from the floor.

The boy sat back against his pillows, cheerful again. The family looked at Faramir with a polite and expectant silence. He cleared his throat. "So," he said, rubbing his hands together. "The Battle of the Five Armies."

It was spectacular.

* * *

"Should we have him collected today?" said the King.

"Er, one more night, I think," said Faramir.

"We don't want to impose—"

"One more night should do the trick," said the Steward. He was gathering himself for the finale. He was in top form. Even Éowyn dabbed her eyes at the death of Thorin.

* * *

"Thank you," said the King, his voice heartfelt. "I hope he behaved himself."

"He was no trouble at all."

The King handed over a piece of parchment. "He asked me to give you this."

Faramir unfolded it, and admired the drawing. He counted the figures. A little one at the front, then thirteen more (with a fat one in the middle), and there, at the back… He started to laugh.

"What?" said the King.

Over the last figure, one word, in a child's laboured hand.

WIZERD.

* * *

**Notes:** Written for the Teitho picture challenge IV, where it placed first.

_Altariel, 6__th__ April 2019_


End file.
